


Chronicle

by idgit_with_a_fidget



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (eventual Destiel), Angst, Cannibalism, Cas gets bitten, Character Death, Dark Character, Disease, Gore, Horror, Loss of Grace, M/M, Road Trips, Slow Build, Team Free Will, Zombies, car snoozing, hunger, motel times, pyschosis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-27 23:16:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/667577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idgit_with_a_fidget/pseuds/idgit_with_a_fidget
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Out on a hunt, Cas gets bitten, and it's a race against time to cure him before he loses control. But the Virus works fast, and Dean has to realise they might not win this round. Run, boys, run.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Phase 1

**Author's Note:**

> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Transmissible_spongiform_encephalopathy

Castiel was ill. 

It wasn’t a full blown virus yet –no snot dripping, drool seeping or eyes criss-crossed with scarlet thread- but the tickly cough signs were there. Cas blinked at the brothers, perplexed, blue eyes round.

“Can angels get sick?” Sam asked warily, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes scrutinisingly at Cas from his safe-zone: a bar stool in the kitchen of Bobby's place. He was toying with a salt dispenser in the shape of a novelty duck. They came in a mister and missus set. 

Dean was tense, shoulders squared. His attention was fully focussed on the puzzled Cas. He didn’t want to believe it, didn’t want to think of the consequences. If Cas had been exposed, had they?

“I dunno…maybe they…this thing, whatever it is, can…get into his immune system or somethin’. I dunno; I’m no witch doctor,” Dean said tersely. “Aren’t you supposed to be the nerd with all the answers?”

Sam made a face. He could almost hear Dean’s heart hammering, blood pounding, the soldier’s instinct infecting his bones, preparing his muscles for whatever combat may arise. Sam was envious, in a way, but in another he was sympathetic. 

They’d been alerted to an investigation in Colorado to an abandoned theme park, where rumours and whispers of a rabid flesh-munching creature roaming around and nibbling on the chewy thrill-thirsty teenagers who liked to play hide ‘n’ seek in the reportedly haunted funhouse and creaky old Ferris wheel. Turns out the apparent animal attack –always an animal attack- was actually some poor semi-zombified soul and his buddies who were just trying to get their recommended guideline daily amount. The boys and Cas had travelled there for their usual job: salt round, iron rods, plenty of ammo and fake ID to get in and out again. The Impala drove smoothly, the locals were co-operative and their hands were steady.

But it was other things that got shaky. 

The Cannibal Crew got brave. They came in fleets, those who hadn’t been eaten or used to pick rotten teeth, some missing arms or eyes or half of their skin in their things; all snarling and growling and slumped into a half-hearted fighting stance. Maggots crawled and picked at the greying meat. They looked like walking, moaning billboards for an all-you-can-eat vulture buffet. 

And one bit Cas. 

Right in the shoulder, transformed teeth shredding his shirt and piercing his skin, bleeding into the small but savaged wound. Sam and Dean hadn’t noticed; they were too busy wrestling off the undead freaks from their own bodies and tossing them into a pile. It was only in the romantic orange flow of the warm fire of burning half-zombies as they celebrated their exhausting and sweaty victory Dean saw the red-black blood oozing and staining Cas’ arm. Remarkably, the angel was showing no notion of pain, or care. Dean had reacted quite oppositely. 

Sam flipped through their father’s old notebook, looking for inspiration. Dean circled Cas as though he was eyeing up a specimen in a zoo. Cas turned as he did, arms limp and heavy by his sides, tan trenchcoat nicely folded over a nearby chair.

“I don’t understand the severity of the situation. It’s a flesh wound,” Cas said.

Dean placed his hand gently on Cas’ shoulder. He flinched, winced. A flash of fear zapped across his face and settled in his eyes.   
_  
I’m not gonna hurt you,_ Dean assure him in his mind, wondering if Cas could hear and wished he could. His gaze was strong and hard with the same protective fire that engulfed him whenever his younger brother was in trouble. 

Cas relaxed slightly as Dean undid the blue tie and the top few buttons. Goosebumps rose and the skin turned a faint claret. He tore the rip in the shirt wider, exposing the cut. It had turned an unhealthy greenish-yellow and refused to scab over. Congealed blood formed grotesque globules –little bubbles of sticky red- around the ragged bite mark where the skin was flayed. Dean felt Cas’ muscles roll and contact as his hand lingered. Sensing the discomfort he backed off slightly. He glanced at the floor, away from Cas’ worried and eager face, then back at Sam.

“Sam, it doesn’t look good,” he said gravely, stomach descending into his boots. He was suddenly aware of a black shadow creeping into his chest cavity and making home there. Dread. Cold and hostile and cunning. “They definitely…” he hesitated. “What was it those kids had? Were they full Romero or…”

Sam cleared his throat and rubbed his eyes groggily, reading from his laptop screen robotically. “’Transmissible spongiform encephalopathy’. Form of progressive prion disease which is transmitted through bodily fluids or infected tissue. Says here there is some form of chemical splice gone wrong. Those infected are still, in some form, human, but they have the uncontrollable cannibalistic urge to eat raw flesh. Symptoms include insomnia, confusion, memory loss. When it gets so bad the infected lose the ability to move and talk; hence the zombie-like shuffling and the cliché groaning. The mutation eats away at the frontal lobe and cerebrum meaning lapses of conscious thought when the lust for meat gets too strong that they can’t control it.”

“You mean like a werewolf?” Dean asked, desperate to relate this situation to something he was familiar with.

Sam shrugged. “Yeah. I mean. I guess so. Sort of. I’m guessing it’ll start eating at Jimmy’s brain soon.”

“Think he’ll lose his Grace?”

“And turn human again? I don’t know.”

Dean looked at Cas, hurt, concerned. “Can we stop it?”

Sam went quiet. He tousled his hair. “I…I don’t know, Dean. Scientists haven’t come up with an antidote yet. I think it progresses so far that they forget who they are, were, and… I dunno, Dean. I’m sorry. This is unlike anything we’ve ever seen. Maybe he’ll heal himself.”

“We deal with things we’ve never seen or thought about seeing every day of our lives, Sam!” Dean snapped, banging his fist on the mantelpiece. “Why should this be any different?”

“I want to know if we’re at risk, Dean. Isn’t that your main concern?”

The fire in the older brother’s face gave Sam the answer he hated to be the truth. 

“If I may interject,” Cas said, who had been waiting until he was the elephant in the room before piping up. “Dean. Sam. Perhaps it would be beneficial if I parted from your company.”

“No, you’re staying here,” Dean replied sharply.

“Dean, maybe Cas is-” Sam tried.

“Yeah, and maybe he’s not. You’re staying with us. We’ll find a cure. We’ll track down a healer or something,” Dean reinforced with anxious urgency. “Cas, listen. We’re, _I’m_ gonna make sure you’re fixed.”

“Dean, you are being irrational,” Cas said, buttoning up his shirt. “I will hurt you.”

“We can work with this,” Dean pressed. “We can work through it.”

Cas’ eyes were empty, devoid briefly. A stab of starvation tore at his insides as he inhaled deeply. He could smell the sweat slick on Dean’s brow, the panic like a visible odour from his pores. He smelled so…so…

_Blank._

***

Cas faltered, blood making his head rush and spin. He stared, terror scrawled across his face. Dean had taken several steps backwards and Sam was on his feet, expression stricken with shocked worry. How long had he been out? Minutes? Seconds? It felt like hours, days. 

“Dean. He…” Sam breathed, warning. “It’s started.”

“Yeah. I saw,” Dean replied stiffly, and then anxiously: “Cas?”

Cas tilted his head to one side, mind throbbing. So…so…what? He couldn’t remember. Behind his eyes a white stab of fear struck and his pulse hammered. Terror. Then the need for food, such a strange need he’d only experienced infrequently before, now a nibbling, ever nagging sensation. His mouth watered and it scared him. Cas caught Dean’s eye. 

“Dean. I’m hungry.”


	2. Phase 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas' monster is hungry for something bigger than small scraps of beef jerky. Look out, Sam...

The stench of Sam Winchester was like the aroma of a good cheese that had been left to its own devices in an expert cellar in Paris: old, a bit funky, but delicious. Also somewhat of an acquired taste. Also not as mouth-watering as the older brother. That was something else entirely: a whole new, very foreign experience Cas wrestled with his conscience over. Sam and Dean were his allies, his friends, but yet the Hunger.

Oh, the sweet ache of the Hunger. Like a hickey: it hurt, but it was fun.

It had barely been thirty-six hours but the virus was working through the angel’s system with spectacular grace and speed. Sam reported it would probably be slower in infecting Cas because he wasn’t mortal, but it would have its…bursts of inspiration. 

It was sore, very sore, and the gash in his shoulder stung like acid fire, a venom that tore through to his core. It made him strain and thrash and cry out for help, for release, for the pressure to be relieved; but no care was given, no pain killer was administered. Dean had fended off the first roar of the Hunger with a bag of beef jerky they’d found stashed at the back of a kitchen cupboard. It worked for a while, muffled the pleads and snarled and barks of the virus, but the sensation, the lust to feed was still there: a black shape that stretched and rolled restlessly inside, yearning to unsheathe its claws and pounce and play. He’d controlled internal demons before: why not now? Why had he been rendered basically human? The timing was ridiculously bad. He nibbled the dried meat to suppress the surge, but whenever Dean got too close…

Damn.

Cas could smell the strong metallic scent of the man’s blood as fresh as though it had broken through his skin and smeared on the floor. It was like the best condiment lathered like cologne over a tender meat cut. Cas rolled his head back to fight the urge to pin the hunter down beneath him and rip him limb from limb. 

Casually, curiously, Cas wondered what his friend would taste like. He’d wondered this before, secretly, but not in this context. Now it was this weird fusion of carnal and carnivorous desire that was sure to secure him a place in Hell should he play out the scenes in his thoughts. Maybe he could just chew at a bit of him and keep the rest for other uses? An arm, maybe? No… a hand? A thumb? Thumbs are pretty useful, though. No. He’d have to starve. 

But that smell. It was like a perverse turn-on, a gory fetish. Cas tensed up in the dark on the edge of the chair he perched on, fingers like a vice on his own legs. Dean had assured Sam that binding the angel to a chair was not a good idea in case he ‘hulks out and destroys everything.’

They’d retired to their rooms for the night, sleeping soundly in the comforts of dear old Bobby’s house, unaware of the power of the dark beast within Cas’ veins. IT could hear their breathing. One’s was slow, purposeful: Sam. The other was faster, asymmetric: Dean. He was still awake. IT could hear the twangs and protests of the mattress as he tossed and turned, searching in vain for a comfortable position that would coax his imagination to bed and leave the heartfelt concerns for Castiel for the morning- should he make it that long. IT wondered how different Dean’s breath would be, trapped under the weight of Cas’ monster. How fast would his pulse go before it ruptured? How heavy would he pant? Would he scream? Beg? Cas brought his hands to his ears to block out the sounds. He could almost taste the terror emitting from his body. The house seemed to wobble and warp around him, as though it wasn’t real, wasn’t tangible. He closed his eyes, trying to grasp hold of the remaining sanity he had left. It was like clinging onto sand or water.

IT stirred, sensing another presence. Cas opened his eyes with a snap, heat burning and gurgling in his lungs and gullet. So hungry…

“You awake?” Sam. The one who was supposed to be sleeping. His face was half-illuminated by the fridge light. Cas’ own face was half lit by a soft amber lamp and the waxen, fat, yellow moon. 

“I thought you were asleep,” Cas said, trying to ignore the aromatic savoury smell and the purring of IT. 

“Thirsty,” Sam explained simply with a yawn, rubbing sleep grit from his eyes. “How are you holding up?”

“Better than your brother.”

Sam frowned and poured a glass of milk; he didn’t drink straight from the bottle like Dean did. 

“He just wants to help you,” he took a sip. “And so do I. But…”

“You worry you will be involved in a metaphorical goose chase?” Cas offered sombrely. 

Sam didn’t know how to respond. Every word he uttered rang with tones of retreat and defeat. They’d try their best but success was sickeningly unlikely. He didn’t reply but shot the angel an apologetic glance. Instinct told him to fight, to search high and low for a cure like they’d done for their father, for a loophole in Dean’s deal. No such ideas proved steadfast. 

Cas’ skin prickled. The dark hairs on the nape of his neck stood on end, his senses heightened. Saliva pooled in his mouth, slickening his tongue and teeth. The vintage cheese stench caused his breath to catch in his throat. IT squirmed and hissed and persuaded, fangs dripping with malice and primal hunger. Cas gripped his legs tighter until his knuckles turned white. He was teetering on the edge of the chair, watching the Adam’s apple in Sam’s throat bob up and down as he tipped his chin all the way back to salvage the final crystal white dribbles of milk. 

Cas exhaled, and felt his grip around his mind slacken until he was hanging by his nails.

_Pretend it’s his brother._

Castiel let his monster off its leash.


	3. Phase 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam didn't run. But now Dean's got to. The clock's ticking. Better drive faster, boy.

Dean rifled through the cupboards, searching for a cleaning agent. He found some foul smelling bleach and a damp cloth which he took through into the front room and knelt down by the lake of blood on the carpet. Grimacing through his tears he began to scrub; deliberately at first, but then furiously before throwing the rag down in vexation, cheeks stained a hot rose from crying. Images, recent, of little Sammy screaming…Dean running so fast he thought he’d fall down the last steps…just in time to see Cas drag him towards the bathroom and slam the door…

“Dean?”

Dean snapped his head up, seething. Cas was looking at him, shame and confusion in his blue eyes. He ran his hand across his lips and frowned at the scarlet he smudged. He picked a tidbit from his teeth and spat it onto the carpet, recoiling, breathing hard. Dean had been too late. Poor Sam Winchester had only managed one strangled cry before IT had found its rhythm. Dean had clattered down the stairs, knife in hand, gun in belt but…

His morals and memory were as blurred as the event. Seven minutes of gory heaven. A tenderloin moment between carnivorous angel and defenceless human. 

Dean felt violently unwell. He’d already thrown up and briefly blacked out, only to have the reek of rusty metal and stale plasma revive him. He’d threatened Cas with his knife, his gun, pressed it to his neck, his skull, hands quivering on the blade and trigger, as though he could scare the virus out. But it wasn’t as simple as that. Cas hadn’t been aware, had he? Memory loss was a symptom. That _thing_ had taken him over. The real Cas, the Cas he cared for, had been trapped, locked away inside. If he’d been aware, he wouldn’t have…would he? But Sam. His own sibling. Reduced to nothing more than a meat counter by the one he owed so much to. 

The urge to retch and vomit bubbled in Dean’s stomach. He groaned, temples throbbing. Tears dripped into the carpet. He wanted to scream, to thrash, to take revenge, to avenge Sammy; taken too soon. He had to stay in control. Stay focussed. Plan their next move. Dean rocked on his knees as pain slashed through his heart. 

_I was too late. He called for me but I was too late. I failed._

Cas closed the bathroom door over softly. Behind it the white tiles were almost invisible beneath their new coat of grisly red paint.

“Dean,” he tried again, apprehension making the end of the syllable squeak. He looked so scared, so vulnerable, so unaware of the chaos he caused. “Dean, I don’t know what’s going on. I didn’t mean…”

_Are you finished, huh? Did you make sure you got ‘im all? Didn’t waste anythin’? Did you floss all the scraps out? ‘Cos don’t go tellin’ me that my brother wasn’t good enough for ya, you hear? You crazy son of a bitch, you’re lucky I don’t rip your head from your shoulders right this second; you’re lucky I still got some stupid reason to have faith in you that you ain’t got control over this mother and that you would’ve saved ‘im if you knew how._

Dean’s eyes scorched with such an odium Cas had never seen on a human face. The agony in Dean’s expression, as raw as a scratch, was like a sword between the eyes. He wrung his hands.

“Go and wash your goddamn face,” Dean ordered sternly. “Go! We’re not leaving with you looking like that.”

Cas stammered. “What about-”

“There are fresh shirts in my wardrobe; go get changed. They’ll probably fit. If they don’t, don’t complain. Make it work,” Dean raised himself onto his hunkers then upright. He rubbed his cheeks and exhaled stressfully. Cas was still looking at him desperately like a puppy who’d been kicked and not told why. 

“Dean, I’m sorry. I have wronged you. I didn’t-”

“ _I don’t care!_ ” was the strained reply, conflicting emotions constricting in his oesophagus. “Go and get changed and get prepared. I’ll go load the car. Be quick.”

“Where are we going?”

“Away.”

Cas vanished and Dean hurled a lamp at the wall. The bulb shattered loudly and the light was extinguished. Dean shook as the shooting feelings of ache and loss zipped up and down the length of his nervous system. He felt like a live wire. So many emotions kept away for too long; he wasn’t going to let them cloud his judgement. Not yet. His trusty knife lay glinting on a dusty nearby table and thoughts of assault crossed his mind again. He should ambush Cas as soon as he came out of the house; slit his throat, sever his skull from his neck and ditch him in a nearby werewolf hunting ground; the lunar cycle was right and it would save another clean up.

_The thing killed my brother._

And then:

_Yeah. The thing. Not Cas. The thing inside Cas. It’s using him as a vessel. Oh, the irony._

Dean stopped pacing, thoughts whirling. He couldn’t kill Cas. Not after everything they’d been through; after all the scrapes and laughs. He was practically…

His mind was made up. He would slaughter the thing possessing Cas, burn it and send it to Hell, straight to the Pandemonium city jail, never to see the light of day again. 

But what if that meant destroying its vessel? Exorcisms rarely ended well for the host bodies. 

Dean inhaled cuttingly through his teeth and gagged again as he caught sight of the red smears that had been spattered up the bathroom door. 

_POUND POUND POUND_

_“Sammy! Sammy! Let me in! SAMMY!”_

Stay in control. Don’t think about that. What’s done is done. Grieve later. Plan now.

_Sam, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry…_

Apologies were useless now. No longer was he walking around in a world of black and white; a world where you killed or were killed. Dean re-loaded his gun to face a world dyed in shades of murky, unsure greys.


	4. Phase 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They take the car and the clothes on their back and begin their journey. But the road is long and lonely, and Dean only has a sick Castiel for company. What happens by the side of the road and noticed by moonlight, really should stay unsaid.

They drove for a long time. 

The night sliced past the Impala’s window like a hostile predator and the traffic –though the scattered few there were- held no prisoners. Dean kept his worryingly dry eyes firmly fixed on the small patches of road illuminated by the car’s headlights that lay ahead. He had only been awake a few hours but it felt like days.

The Impala was packed with its usual weaponry; an assortment of maps that detailed both local areas and the whole continent; all the food and bottles from the fridge including pork scratchings and beef jerky for Cas and strong beer for the driver; enough clothes to wash and wear and the most money Dean could squander that was in hard cash. 

The journey had been in silence: long and solid and awkwardly stretched out. Cas sat in the passenger’s seat, a crinkled bag of jerky secured between his knees, daring to take glances at Dean every now and again. The smell of him, the feeling of him this close made IT gurgle happily, hungrily. IT had just been fed a large meal and yet petulantly IT demanded more. Cas chewed more salted dry meat like it was special gum for a smoker determined to ditch the habit. 

“Dean, you should rest. You may fall asleep at the wheel. It is dangerous,” he warned.

“Rich coming from you,” Dean replied bitterly. 

“Dean, you must believe me. I had no idea what I did. What I was doing. If I had regained consciousness and control I would have stopped,” Cas stressed, but Dean’s brow remained stone-like. “The last thing I wanted was to hurt you two. Please. I do not like this virus inside of me anymore than you do. It’s hurting me. At least put a bullet through my head so you can be at peace.”

“I’m not giving up that easy. I’m not gonna lose two of the people I…. two people in the same night, okay?” Dean’s tone was steely, forced, unforgiving. “But until I think of a plan we gotta keep moving. We gotta keep low profile. You especially. You gotta fight it. You hear? Cas?”

“I don’t know if I-”

“Cas.”

Cas nodded. He hated that tone. It was like murder itself. Regret and injury and disappointment all mingled into one. “Yes, Dean.”

“Good. Now let me drive in peace.”

He pressed a button on the car stereo and leaned back ever-so-slightly in his seat. The song that played was slower than expected, a rock-like ballad that was barely audible. It filled the entire vehicle and seeped into Dean’s ears. For a moment he was calm, relaxed. The muscles in his outstretched arms loosened. He let his head bob to the bounce of the tarmac and gravel. 

The car rolled down and around the roads, heading straight on ‘til morning. Dean glimpsed over at Cas who had slumped in his seat, collapsing his always rigid posture so that the grey strap of the seatbelt dug into his jaw. Dean wondered if somehow he’d fallen asleep, as if he’d found serenity somewhere amongst the bedlam of his septic mind. Dean could feel the angel’s humid fever on his arm from his brow and he noticed in the spasmodic bursts of yellow from other passing cars the paleness of his face and how ashen it looked. The indigo creases beneath each eye; the hint of a nosebleed; the cracks of dehydration on his lips; the scruffy black mess of his hair. His breathing was sticky, and Dean suddenly realised how _small_ Cas seemed, all curled up there on the leather seat beside him whilst the poison coursed through his arteries. He seemed ghost-like and insubstantial, as though Dean’s hand would merely pass through him like a hologram, as though he’d disintegrate or blow away into the car ventilation system. 

For a moment a sober sadness welled within the conflicted hunter and there was an odd echo of harmony. He saw his future in the specks of rain that began to drizzle upon the windshield: him and the angel, travelling forever, running away from their past in search for answers. Was anything so different?

Out of the corner of his eye as he pulled over by the side of a sleepy, forest-shrouded road , that Cas was mouthing the lyrics to the song that had just faded, murmuring them quietly to himself, starting a new line on each breath until he got so far and seemed to forget, ebbing back into silence.

Dean cut the engine, undid his seatbelt and propped himself up on the window, pupils dilating just enough to see the distinct shape of Cas’ face. Something shifted inside, somewhere deep, somewhere faraway in a recess, somewhere Dean didn’t even contemplate.

_…Oh my God._

“Dean?” the whisper was a breeze on a leaf.

“Mm?”

“I’m sorry.”


	5. Phase 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean starts to question if he can keep up this act anymore as the guillotine dangles above both of their throats. Cas, or the lives of many? Meanwhile, the carnal side of Cas' monster starts to purr.

Reports of a body count were already cropping up on the news.

They tried to cover their tracks –having no ID helped with that- but Cas was never one for subtlety. People still found the remnants, worried about their missing loved ones. Sometimes they rushed and there wasn’t time for a whole meal. Dean was getting tired of digging graves. He was tired of hunting people for Cas to eat. He tried to select those who wouldn’t be missed, criminals mostly, but he had to stay in the car whilst Cas enjoyed his choice with vigour. Dean hadn’t hunted a monster for someone else’s benefit weeks. 

The hunt for a cure was less successful. No healer or hunter had any advice or idea to what was eating at Cas’ brain –literally. The only piece of information he’d learned was that after the virus got out, it had infected the entire lab of scientists, so no antidote was formulated. Dean had come to the conclusion he would brew his own. He’d tracked down mysterious alleys, chased after elusive wiccans, infiltrated covens and demon-lairs. He summoned every demon and being in the book, interrogated them, nearly killed them, and frequently did out of rage and frustration and the angst he suppressed for too long. A lonesome back-street alchemist had given him a recipe and a bottle of ominous substance as a reward after Dean slayed the angry ghost that was plaguing him. He hid the bottle in a combat-green duffle bag out of Cas’ sight. He had the blood of a creature infected with the same disease and enough shavings of gold to make a seriously classy dessert. Now all he needed were the roots of some obscure Middle-Eastern plant, an ‘act of righteousness’, and the summoning of a medicinal being: Asclepius, God of medicine. Getting the summoning ritual for him was another plate to spin. It wasn’t easy; you couldn’t just buy those things online. Sam drove him on, the thought of Sam, but his brother hadn’t even appeared to him in a dream, let alone try and contact him via a fogged mirror or makeshift Ouija board. He found himself praying for a miracle. Fear of disaster and failure haunted him, turning his nights into dragging, sleepless hours.

The pair rented a double room in a dingy Nashville motel with two single beds one night. 

In the dark, Cas was dozing. Snack-time always left him sleepy and his condition had been worsening. He should’ve been teased by insomnia by now but somehow that symptom had skipped him. His skin was dry, beginning to flake away. The wound in his shoulder seemed to have gained a life of its own, eating away at the remaining healthy flesh on the arm. His eyes were latticed with claret spider webs as the sight came and went. Breathing hurt his chest. He was losing his hearing. Hair was beginning to fall out in black clumps. The gasps and cries of agony were a recurring lullaby. Some days he wasn’t Cas at all: he was something else, something evil and wrong and Dean had to lock him in the motel room chained to the bedpost while he sat in the Impala, hands over his ears to muffle the howling. He was having trouble moving his fingers and toes occasionally and one day he couldn’t manage to speak Dean’s name and had crumbled emotionally, sobbing at the difficulty and fright. The paralysation alarmed him more than anything else; the terror in his eyes was pure and child-like, and Dean would find himself staring out of a window, head pressed cool against the glass, swearing and cursing and shouting and crying and biting through his lip until it bled. Cas was sliding further and further out of his reach. There were scratches on his arm from when the days were particularly bad. A new thought emerged: should he end his life before it got too much of a burden to bear? If he, Dean, were to die, if Cas lost control completely, he wouldn’t be able to find food himself should his mobility. In the most likely of circumstances he would be found and shot like a dog, either by the cops or another hunter. He imagined Cas all confused and alone and weak, shut up somewhere in the corner of his own mind whilst he watched this thing take the wheel and drive its own course, and all the slaughter and the heartache, but being powerless to stop it. 

Dean held the knife over Cas’ throat as he thought this, poised to strike, straddled awkwardly over his chest, but he could feel Cas’ raspy breath reverberating through his body like the beat of a drum. He blocked out the niggles that blamed him of being a traitor, of committing celestial mutiny, of ruining their ‘profound bond’. No matter how many promises he broke or lies he told (Dean reminded himself that he was the one who taught Cas those tricks), Cas was his friend.

Was?

What about now? Less? …More? He didn’t want to think about that. Not now. Not when so much balanced on whether or not he lowered his arm with the right force. Sentiment getting in the way of his scientific detachment. His breathing had synchronised with Cas’. His hands were quivering, he realised, his pulse speeding ahead at a mad speed. 

_I can’t go on like this. You can’t go on like this. I’m doing it for the both of us._

Cas opened his eyes. Dean stared down at him, into the glacous blue. The angel said nothing, just looked at the swirling green. A moment passed. Dean dropped his arm and knelt by the mattress, tears forming again, gripping the blade until his knuckles went white. The blue was too innocent. Too scared. But humble. 

“Would you hunt me?” Cas asked abruptly, and Dean looked up quickly, surprised and guilty.

“What?” he stammered.

“If I got bad-”

Dean didn’t meet his gaze. “Shut up. Don’t be stupid.”

“-if it was to save other souls…”

“Cas! No!” his voice was strained, helpless. Cas was hitting right home with his statements like he’d been reading Dean’s thoughts. _Don’t make me consider this anymore than I already have._

“It’s getting worse, Dean, and you know it,” Cas’ gaze was as intense as always, but this time it was tinged with sadness and hurt. “If something…if I wasn’t me anymore.”

“Cas. I’ll do everything, anything it takes to make sure that doesn’t happen. You know I’m trying, don’t you?”

Cas’ shoulders were tense. He watched Dean in his prayer position carefully from his near-bird’s eye vantage point. He looked so lost. 

“If I become the monster, you’ll have to, Dean. I’d deserve it.”

Dean gripped his fingers into a fist which he pounded into the mattress. “No!” he yelled, vein throbbing in his neck and another prominent in his forehead. “We don’t deserve anything that ever comes to us, you hear?! We save lives all the damn time, but we never deserve any of the crazy crap that happens in our lives. Not me. Not Sammy. Definitely not you. So don’t ever start saying that you’re gonna turn on me without thinkin’ I’m gonna do nothin’ to stop whatever it is infectin’ you before it turns you into some pyscho. You ain’t gonna go zombie on me, Cas, so help me, ‘cos you’re the only-” 

Dean dropped his gaze, unable to look at the angel’s sad blue stare any longer, only to have Cas follow his eyes. Dean swore under his breath and felt himself fidgeting under the icy cobalt. Those eyes. Those _please fuck me and prove me wrong_ eyes. A kill or kiss you look. Or both. Rough and tumble wasn’t all bad then and now. 

_You’re getting distracted._ Dean thought grouchily to himself, and raked his hair with his left hand. He glared at Cas.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he mumbled harshly.

_Great. Instead of telling the truth you hurt his feelings. Well played, Winchester._

Cas’ usual silence seemed to shimmer about him. 

“Nobody will have a name when I start,” he confided quietly. Dean wasn’t looking at him, but somewhere else, somewhere far away. “Not even you, Dean.”

Dean’s eyes were hard, fiery, mouth pulled into a taught, unforgiving line. He knew of that danger, but refused to dwell on it. He said nothing and instead turned his back on the angel on the bed and sat with his spine against the frame, arms crossed stiffly across his chest and chin on his knees. 

“Why?” Cas asked watching the knife glint on the pillow.

A blush stained Dean’s neck and jaw, but it wasn’t one purely of anger.

“I dunno,” he mumbled. “Somewhere between you snacking on my kid brother and the car stereo…” he trailed off and waved his hand distractedly. 

He jerked his nose to a right angle to find Cas’ face close, leaning at an twisted angle from the bed, cross-legged, breathing his air space. Dean froze, drank in the moment, lapped up the blue. His breath was shaking, quivering and it hitched in his throat. Cas' pupils were so large, the black seeped into his iris, gaze on his mouth. _Are you insane? You could die if you do this. You could get infected too!_

_What have I got to live for anymore?_

Their collision was not seamless: it was awkward and hasty and hungry.

IT ripped his shirt, but Cas was careful with his skin.


	6. Phase 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean thinks he's found a cure, but will it work? Cas' monster is getting stronger and more restless, and soon he's going to forget everything he is and was. They're beginning to lose all hope. Would it be better to give up?

They moved around a lot, targeting crummy and damp motels to spend their nights. Dean payed, Cas would stare. Nobody asked questions, nobody gave funny looks or suspicious raised eyebrows. What they did during the day –all the fighting and investigating and retaining a low profile despite the news headlines crawling with bold print of a deranged serial killer on the loose- was wrapped up and forgotten in what they did late at night on scratchy sheets. Their activities were subdued. The risk of infection was too high. Dean was at risk. He had to save Dean. Dean wasn't sure if he wanted to be saved anymore.

Cas could sense Dean growing more and more troubled and progressively on edge. He looked rough: his hair constantly looking as though it had never been introduced to a cut-and-blow-dry; his complexion as dire as Cas’. He was as aggressive and as intimidating as a police hound to everyone who crossed his path, even the clients he met with to arrange trades for the formula components. But he let Cas see that fear. Some nights he’d sit at the foot of his narrow and uncomfortable single bed, head in his hands and either tears on his face or a disconcerting blank guise of absence. Other nights he could barely stand the sight of the angel; even went as far as booking a separate room or resting in the car. He drank a concerning amount of coffee and alcohol to combat the approach of slumber and when there were no clients, Dean targeted noisy and belligerent and rowdy bars and strip-clubs; his old reckless self was returning and it was back with vengeance. Cas didn’t see him when the lust for meat kicked in: those nights they separated to chase their own needs. The knife nor the gun left his pocket or belt. Cas imagined it slicing through his skin, piercing an organ, angering IT. 

IT was getting braver and stronger. Dried meat didn’t work anymore. His mouth drooled when he caught sight of a plump girl in a bikini (Dean’s magazines were put way out of reach) or an obese man taking a jog in a pitiful attempt to battle the bulge. Breaks between feeding were shortening. IT was winning. Cas could feel the darkness swallowing him from the feet upwards. He could feel his vessel stretching to its limit. He couldn’t block out the voices anymore, either. The voices that belonged to the actions he couldn’t remember, the black-outs. They were becoming more common, too, so much so he was helpless; unable to remember where he was and why. He tried to contact Those Above with little prevail. He had been abandoned, cast out to fend for himself, and he couldn’t always do that. He was human now, perhaps something even less. He wanted this suffering to end. Dean was no more than a blur of confused, wild senses; some animal, some human, some something altogether different. Dean had been his anchor, the reason he was fighting as hard as he was not to fall into the ocean of Perdition that awaited him. The anchor was drifting away. 

More often than not he pictured stripping Dean’s flesh, picking his gums with a tooth, gnawing on his femur, especially when that delicious smell was far too much to handle. IT growled, gagging. 

The clock hands reached near two in the morning. IT twitched irritably. 

_LET ME OUT_

Cas gripped into his own palm, drawing blood. A numbness spread. He hated being alone now. He wanted Dean beside him to battle the son of a bitch off. But he’d vanished again to God knows where. But Cas could ask him anymore. 

The sound of a cart trundled up the hall of the Illinois motel where breakfast was free all day so long as you made it yourself.

_LETMEOUTLETMEOUTLETMEOUTLETMEOUT_

The cart drew closer: a tired, dishevelled Hispanic maid with a stack of duvets and pillows wandered up on her night-shift, getting ready to replace the sheets and towels from other rooms for the morning. She stopped in front of the door across the hall, number twenty one, and yawned. Cas stirred, smelling the seasoned scent of her, gripped into his palm deeper. 

_Dean, please. Come back. Help me…_

He felt IT thrash and rampage inside the cage that was his skin like an animal kept in captivity for too long. His bones ached and bruised and the pain he felt was everywhere; every square inch, every cell. Blinking sounded like a thunderstorm, the fluid in his ear a tidal wave. No, not her, what has she done? She’s an innocent. But the black, sleepy curls of her hair and the dim twinkle in her brown eyes was a leer, a misinterpreted signal. Her skin was the colour of a caramel glaze. 

IT lunged. 

Cas felt as though he was being left behind on the bed whilst he watched his body-static and shambling- lumber after the maid. Watched her scream and flounder as IT sunk its teeth into her collar and wrestled her onto the floor. Watched as the blood spouted. Watched as those juices filled his mouth, flooded into and around his gums: the sweet, sweet taste of adrenaline and the ebbing throbbing of the pulse on his tongue. Watched as a crumpled-from-sleep young woman stepped out of room twenty one and shrieked, grabbed her phone and took off down the opposite way. Then the lapse rolled in. 

**

Dean ignited the car engine when the police radio bleeped, filling the car with a warbling report of a crazed homicide in a motel in Illinois. He thumped the car dashboard angrily and thrust the antidote into the duffle bag, burying it in enough clothes that would act as packaging. Weeks, months, nearly a year of searching and bartering, and finally his efforts had paid off. But the God –who had appeared in the shape of a blonde man- been full of warning. 

“I cannot heal all,” he had pointed out. “I cannot help those who are past the point of return. People must pass when they are meant to. It isn’t right of me to meddle.”

Since when had Gods cared about not meddling? 

This had to work. If it didn’t, there wasn’t any other hope of survival. 

“Dammit, Cas,” he murmured to himself and swung the car round, stomping on the accelerator and veering towards the motel. 

**

He bolted down the corridor, thanking anyone from any pole that he’d arrived before the police cars he’d passed. He turned sharply, aware of his heart hammering and his shoes making thudding noises on the beige carpet and the duffle bag bouncing against his shoulder. He could hear the snuffles and grunts of IT before he arrived and the unmistakeable whiff of exposed bones. He stopped dead in the doorway. Looked anywhere but at the mess on the floor.

“Hell…” he breathed. “Holy sh…Cas?”

Cas coughed and rocked backwards on his heels, mouth dripping with ruby. “Dean, I can’t hold it off any longer,” his speech was laborious as though his tongue was made of lead. He tried to reach out to Dean but his had wouldn’t budge. He stared at it, willing it to lift, but it remained motionless. 

“Who called the cops?” Dean asked, bile sour at the back of his mouth. 

“Woman…” Cas slurred. “Tw…twenty wuh…un…”

“Twenty one as in age?” he swivelled. No; the room across the hall. “You get her too?” _It would be handy, actually, if you did. No witnesses and all._

“Ran…” Cas whispered and screwed his eyes shut. His vocabulary had been reduced to minor monosyllables. 

Dean entered the room, stepping over the dismembered remains. Petrified eyes stared up at him, the remainder of the mouth screeching for help he couldn’t give. He crossed to the window, peeped through the curtains. A dark realisation hit him like bricks. This is it. This is now. 

Sirens yowled and red and blue flashed on the curtains. Dean chewed his lip, cancelled the deer’s-eyes expression on his face and whirled round. His fists were clenched. Better do this right.

“Cas, the cops are gonna be here soon,” he dived under the bed and rifled in the duffle bag. 

“What… are you, you looking for?” Cas shuffled awkwardly, still semi-crouched. His vision swam, he couldn’t focus. It was like being underwater. Let this end.

“Antidote.”

Cas was stunned. He shook his head. His skull was somehow too heavy for his neck to support. “No.”

A resolute spark seared in Dean’s face. “Man, I’m not getting’ out of this room in a good way. You’re either gonna turn me into a deluxe king-sized Whopper or I’m goin’ to jail. I dunno which I’d prefer, to be honest. But I also know that if they find you the way you are, they’ll shoot you between the eyes before they put you on trial. They’ve seen your face on the news; don’t think that’ll stop ‘em. I don’t want them to find you, Cas. I don’t want you to die. So, please. You have to let me try this,” Dean begged, presenting the syringe to Cas. “Please. If it’s the last thing I do.”

Cas stared at him, considering, wincing. At last he nodded. “Okay.”

Dean held the syringe up in the light. The liquid inside was a rotten black-grey fusion that seemed to emit its own energy. It was warm in his fingers. He tapped the side and squeezed out any air bubbles. He’d never liked needles. Squatting down to Cas’ height he took his wrist, grasping tightly. With the other hand he loosened his belt and removed it from the loops in his trousers and wrapped it around Cas’ arm, securing it tight. The mottled skin turned white. 

Dean locked eyes with Cas. The red rash around his eyes and brow was inflamed. The fear in his irises was bright. _You gotta trust me on this one._

Dean set his jaw and plunged the point of the needle into the underside of Cas’ elbow through the belt-hole. There was some muscle resistance, but otherwise it slid in with ease. Taking a deep breath he squeezed and injected the fluid. Cas seemed to be in a lot less pain than expected. Dean tossed the soiled needle into a corner and slackened the belt.

“Cas? How…do you feel?”

Cas closed his eyes and a sudden strangled moan of agony rippled up his body. Prominent veins throbbed. A gasp escaped his mouth that sounded like Dean’s name. He staggered and doubled over, groaning, wailing out. Blood dripped from his nose onto his shirt. Colours exploded behind his eyelids. A gentle whisper cajoled him into the shadows, into the peaceful void of the dark. 

_LETMEINLETMEINLETMEIN_

Dean put his face in his hands, shot to his feet, pacing, and stomped his foot, smashing the toe of his boot into the enamel sink. He’d failed, he knew it. There was no pretending the pain was a sign of success. He’d made it worse. He’d made IT mad. He watched Cas writhe and moan and felt for the first time since the whole fiasco had started utterly helpless. He caught sight of himself in the grimy bathroom mirror and wanted to smash it into a million pieces. 

_It’s over._


	7. Final Phase

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of the road is here.

The sirens were louder now. Cas was whimpering, feeble and destroyed by the foot of his stained bed. His head was filled with the destruction he caused, the lives he’d literally ripped to shreds. And the worst part: he was forgetting. He forgot who he was. He forget where they were. The pain was beginning to go numb, go away, fade like a bruise. A silence whistled in the back of his mind. _Time to go, Cas. Just let go and it’ll all be over. No more suffering. No more hurt. No more letting Dean down._

He couldn’t remember anything except the blood and the meat and the man who stood so protectively by him, even though it would’ve been easier to execute him before he spiralled out of control. The man who now loomed over him, knelt down on one knee, gazed solemnly at his face. His name, his name…what was his name? 

Dean watched as Cas’ blue eyes glazed over and as the last remaining sparks of Cas fizzed out. There was only a shell now, a shell filled with evil and disease and dressed in a tan overcoat. It looked aimlessly at him and around the room, confused. 

“Cas? You still with me?”

The shell looked back at him and tilted its head inquisitively to one side. Dean had a lump in his throat. 

His name, his name…

“De…ean?” the voice sounded so lost, so lonely. It was the voice of a ghost who’d just left its body. But it was still the voice of Cas. He was still hanging on for a little while longer. 

“Hey, buddy,” Dean forced a soft smile. “You know I never got to hear that true voice of yours again. You’ll have to play it to me sometime, y’hear?” his tone was gentle, soothing, friendly. 

The shell’s mouth slackened. “Sorr…y.”

“Hey you’ll just have to write a reminder.”

“No…” the shell took a hoarse breath. “…Sam.”

Dean blinked through his blurred vision. _Time’s up. I did my best. But when is that ever enough these days?_

“Catch you later, Cas,” he choked, cold panic spreading through him. But he’d rather go this way than go on alone. _See you soon, Sammy._

 

 

 

Cas drew him close and his heart stuttered, as Dean’s breath was frantic and fluttering on his cheek. Yet his face was so brave. Cas gripped his wrist tightly to feel that last petrified rush of pulse and taste the final ecstatic morsel of thin salt tears before IT took over, and claimed the soldier’s debt. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Hey, Sheriff, this is Vine from Illinois local county police responding to a nine-one-one call made here at two-seventeen this evening; we’ve got a clean-up situation here at the East-Side Motel. Yup…uh-huh…two homicides: one, female, Hispanic, severely dismembered. Another white, male, throat gouged out. Yeah…yeah the guy from the news? Oh, yeah, we got ‘im.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all for reading!


End file.
